The Unholy Harvest
(Dinesh Jha's Perspective)
It took us twenty minutes in the jeep to reach the abandoned factory on the outskirts, towards the Fatuha road. The air hung heavy and still, the darkness broken only by the weak beams of our flashlights. The factory loomed before us, a skeletal monument to forgotten industry, silent and ominous.
We cautiously entered the compound, the crunch of gravel under our boots the only sound. Following the directions from the anonymous call, we soon located a large, open area that had been converted into a makeshift distillery. The air reeked of fermenting molasses and raw alcohol. But the place was deserted. No one was tending the crude stills, no one was packing bottles.
"Looks like a dud tip, Shaheb," Constable Sharma muttered, his flashlight beam dancing across the silent equipment. "Maybe some rival gang trying to waste our time."
"Let's not jump to conclusions," I replied, a nagging feeling of unease settling in my gut. "This place looks like it was recently in operation. Let's search the entire area before we call it a prank."
We fanned out, our flashlights cutting through the darkness, illuminating the decaying machinery and piles of discarded junk. The silence was unnerving, amplifying the sense of abandonment. We moved towards a more substantial two-story building at the far end of the compound – the administrator building, judging by its slightly more intact structure.
The ground floor was eerily quiet. Not a sound emanated from within. Then, as we ventured into a dimly lit corridor, we stumbled upon a disturbing sight. Several men lay sprawled on the dusty floor, their limbs askew, their faces pale and still.
"Shaheb!" Constable Verma exclaimed, his voice hushed with alarm. "What happened here?"
We cautiously approached the fallen men. A quick examination revealed no visible wounds, but they were definitely unconscious. A strange prickling sensation ran down my spine. This was more than just a liquor bust gone wrong.
We moved deeper into the building, our pace quickening. We entered a large room where more men lay in the same unnatural state of unconsciousness. And then I saw him – slumped on a tattered sofa, a familiar face in this strange tableau. Raghu. A small-time local goon, known for his involvement in petty crime and peddling cheap liquor. What was he doing here, and in this state?
Just as I was trying to piece together this bizarre scene, a loud, choked gasp echoed from the doorway of an adjacent room. It was Hawaldar Dubey.
"Sahab! Run! Come here! In the next room!" His voice was thick with shock and disbelief.
I sprinted towards the doorway, pushing past a stunned Dubey. The sight that greeted me slammed into me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
There, in the small, dimly lit room, ten children lay huddled together on the bare floor. They were dressed in school uniforms, their small faces pale and drawn, the lingering traces of tears visible even in their sleep.
My mind went blank for a terrifying moment. The fake liquor tip… the unconscious men… the children… Shit. This wasn't about illegal liquor. This was kidnapping. A wave of nausea washed over me. What in God's name was going on here? Raghu, a low-level thug, involved in something this масштабное?
As I stood there, reeling from the shock, the unmistakable sound of multiple vehicles approaching the administrator building shattered the silence. The roar of motorcycle engines and the rumble of cars grew louder, closer. My blood ran cold. Who was arriving now? And then, a chilling thought struck me. The news reports… who had called them? And why?